


Christmas Carols

by gemnosha



Category: sciles - Fandom, teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: And Stiles thinks he's a good cook but he can't even make salad right, Established Relationship, M/M, Scott and Stiles are couple goals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:09:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemnosha/pseuds/gemnosha
Summary: Beacon Hills, a town much loved by the supernatural Force to be reckoned with known as the McCall Pack, was becoming a distant and hazy memory.  Like most nostalgic things, it was  tucked and kept nearly wrapped in a tender napkin made from precious and tidy silk. At least, that's how Scott’s mind operated.  He took in everything he loved and enveloped them into neat files he remembered to always protect. Beacon Hills was one of the many.





	

Beacon Hills, a town much loved by the supernatural Force to be reckoned with known as the McCall Pack, was becoming a distant and hazy memory. Like most nostalgic things, it was tucked and kept nearly wrapped in a tender napkin made from precious and tidy silk. At least, that's how Scott’s mind operated. He took in everything he loved and enveloped them into neat files he remembered to always protect. Beacon Hills was one of the many. 

 

He and Stiles left the wonderful and whimsical place to cascade their trouble worthy lives like corruptive rain over their college campus. To make matters worse, they were living together. 

 

Their dorm room was more of a dorm house, split in two equal parts. On one side, Scott and Stiles lived gracelessly among themselves and on the other, Malia and Lydia did as well. 

 

They've been at college for a week or two, and suddenly Lydia had registered that for some strange mathematical reason she lodged in her head, it would be fun to have a house party, a dinner party - - “Something classy, no one but us. Don't even invite Liam, Scott. Dorm mates only, Scott. Scott, I'm serious. If you cave and invite the rest of your pack, I'll scream.” - - an exclusively _just them,_ classy get together. Have it, Christmas was around the corner, a dinner party wasn't such a _stupid idea_ , it was just a lot of _work._

 

So, here they were. Lydia, unadmittedly, put Stiles in charge of salad because he's not to be trusted with fire and kitchen supplies. Those were her exact instructions, she delivered it to them with a lot verbal intonation — she was yelling — while clutching her mysterious burn marks. 

 

Scott, was in charge of groceries. Now, it's not that he was as colossally untrustworthy when it came to cooking but because how his panty-dropping and dimple over-run smile allowed for continuous and unfair discounts. And, they were four college students who were endlessly in dept. Lydia was less in debt but not liberated, not after her family lost money and selling her Lake house didn't do much for them. 

 

The dorm room — house — door swung open with a fiery kick and an orchestra of clanking and banging rang from groceries. Scott reached the kitchen with a sigh, a painful wring of the neck and a quick envious glance as Malia was popping corks from bottles. He placed the wool bags on the counter, and began fingering out all the things Stiles had asked for first. _Priorities_ , and best friends. They coincide. 

 

Speaking of which, Stiles strutted in with his impromptu speech about how he shouldn't be held at gunpoint for burning Lydia’s elbow seeing as she was dating Jordan Parrish, fire burning hellhound, at the time. Scott focused his ear on Stiles’ presence. He was walking with a strange beating pattern, it seemed more like a skip; Scott smiled to himself. Disclaimer, Stiles and the feeling of _Content_ coincide with Scott as well. 

 

Stiles entered the kitchen and without a stutter or a drop, or better yet, a moment to focus, he scrutinized the scenery. “Scott, those tomatoes are green. Tomatoes are usually red, you know, when we make salads and mince and whatever. It's sort of a thing with how we prepare food. Red tomatoes. You've stolen these poor things from the womb, Scott. That's how unready they are.” Disregard that, Stiles and the sensation of _What The Fuck Ever_ coincide with Scott as well, and frequently. 

 

“Then you go buy the tomatoes, Stiles. Why must I, you know I get anxious about picking things out.” 

 

“Lydia picked you because, one, she's a micro-managing witch right now and, two, I'm not nearly as good looking as you. Which, by the way, buddy, is really helpful when it comes to consumer goods.” He was snapping his fingers rhythmically, gesturing: _You know what I'm saying, don't you?_

 

Scott shook his head furiously, “That's not true.”

 

Stiles’ face pinched together, he was confused, “No, seriously, Lydia might kill someone.” 

 

“That's not what I'm - - never mind.” There's a quick exchange of looks and awkward breathing, Stiles opts to ask what he means but Malia cuts in, wine bottle open and tempting in her hands. 

 

“Green. Red. Just make some salad, dude.”

 

Stiles looks hurt, Scott's wiggling away from the two of them, finding that staying out of Stiles’ uneasy way when he was passionate about something — even salad — was the better option. He hears quietly behind him, “There's definitely a wrong way to make salad, and green tomatoes is one of them.” 

 

He digs his hands back into the wool bags, searching the cataloged, and organized maze he had packaged himself. At the edge of the fabric waited something small enough to be a flower. He furrowed it out with a suspicious but stoic brandish, and placed it deep into his back pocket. If anyone saw him, they stayed quiet. 

 

Out of nowhere, Lydia stormed through the kitchen, her strawberry blonde hair was seemingly more like a brightly lit bonfire. It grew and grew in flames as she bit her lips tight in what looked to Scott as anticipated fury. Then, with a loud squeak, “WELL, I HOPE YOU'RE NOT BUSY ENOUGH TO GREET OUR GUESTS. YOU KNOW, ALL THE PEOPLE WE HAD AGREED NOT TO INCLUDE IN THIS SMALL, VERY SMALL, so small, GET TOGETHER. HMM?”

 

Her aggravated gaze flew to Scott, pinning him down with one stare. He winced, an adorable and innocent glint fluttering his face. “It wasn't me, I swear.” Directly, afterward, Lydia's detesting eyes fell to Stiles. 

 

He was pale, sweating even, fingers twitching in an awkward ball he was trying to create. A beat. Scott heard Stiles’ heart falter just a smidge. “Okay, it was me. It's just,” Lydia exhaled as Stiles tried to defend himself. “Liam has this face, I couldn't say-- 

 

“No!” A synchronicity of wincing took place as Lydia let her eyes hover over everyone. Another exhale. “Fine. It's fine. I'll just,” and the words were fighting the irrefutably sullen and toxic taste she was fixing to throw up, “just take out more placemats.”

 

She left the kitchen abruptly like a mass of resentment, the idea of an Obscurial came to Stiles’ gawking and geeky mind. Scott regarded him intently, and Stiles matched a moment later. There was a sense of gratitude. Oh, yes, that's right: Lydia had made it clear to Scott not to invite the entire pack for dinner but it was always hard on him to exclude his friends. He loved them too much to do that, he wanted to protect them. After all, they were a memory he cared for every day and night with a silken napkin. Stiles, however, was not pursued by Lydia and loved Scott enough to find a small technicality in the proposed infraction. So, he invited the rest of the pack. Scott wanted to kiss him, he was so unbelievably thankful. 

They continued to stare at each other for a moment later, Stiles nodded like he knew what Scott was thinking. 

 

“So, Scott help me with the table setting. Grab the other bottles,” Malia glided her head to the counter top holding more wine, “Stiles, make some green tomato salad.” 

 

Stiles scowled. Scott grabbed the wine and followed Malia to the dining room, his knuckles brushing against Stiles’ leg on the way and it was always such a surprise to Stiles when his best friend was as warm as a used up sledgehammer, burning with energy. To Stiles, Scott and _Heat_ coincided. 

 

His spine twisted hastily to watch as his werewolf best friend walked through the separator on the wall, into the dining room. He saw the Christmas decorations glimmer and shine on Scott’s skin, lighting him up like New Year's Day. And how the smell of rosemary and apples replaced the cologne Scott left behind. His heart muscle did something weird that he figured to be a momentary cardiac arrest because he was at a stand still, glaring. He could see Scott arch around the chairs to place glasses, and bottles of wine in an order Lydia had permanently recorded into all their heads. His eyes darted down to how the sweater on Scott's body didn't quite fit, lifting above hips and revealing the perfectly tanned and lean skin and the Captain America boxers Stiles bought him jokingly for his birthday. _Cute_ and Scott were one of the same too — _Focus_ and salad, Stiles corrected. 

 

He returned his attention to the concoction of leaves and cheeses and green tomatoes, smiling awkwardly to himself. He threw everything together, his attention still fixated on something else. Then, the murmurs of Liam’s familiar voice and _he swears to God_ Lydia’s bubbling brain ranting of anger could be heard from where he worked. _He really let tonight slip away from Lydia’s primary goal but it was for Scott, who he would gladly ruin anything for._ Or, _some sort of vow like that; no matter the phrasing, the intention is clear_. 

 

His focus flickered back to the salad. It was a messy display of properly cut tomatoes with threaded and cut, dark leaves and full blocks of cheese. _Strange but not, not good._ Decidedly, good enough. 

 

Footsteps broke through his working gears and wired thinking, hesitant footsteps as well. No, not hesitant, considerate and kind, the sort of walking that his devoted best friend was great at because he cared. Stiles swung around, “Salad’s done-- sort of.”

 

Scott's cheeks blew up with bright colors — amused, he heaved mockingly at the sight of what Stiles made. To which, Stiles simply swatted him with one of the tomatoes. 

 

“I'm really sorry about the green--

 

“Oh, don't even. I was into the idea of making the best salad ever to prove Lydia she's being - - but, I give up. She's crazy.” 

 

Scott smiled, face splitting. There's silence afterward, their bodies melt into it, smiles fading into endearing stares. Scott did a thing where he stretched his smile into a blossoming laugh, then bit his lip — deep in thought. Stiles’ heart twitched, again. Or, what did he coin it: Stiles went into cardiac arrest. The sound it made, however, was painfully loud. Scott’s ears closed in on the extra beat. _Content._

 

Scott dug into his pocket, finding his way to what he had hidden before. “I know, against Christmas traditions, we decorated without mistletoe for the benefit of two allergic beasts living here, but,” the supernaturally poisonous plant twiddled in his fingers, “I turned the other cheek. And, before we break another tradition;" He lifted the mistletoe above his head, stepped forward to his best friend, a moment apart he grinned at Stiles, I suggest you kiss me, and make it extra good because Santa Clause does not like tradition… ruiners… breakers… non-conformists?” A beat. 

 

Stiles lifted to his tiptoes, tried to tower his hands over Scott to hold onto his shoulders and pulled him close. The warmth of the werewolf’s skin and breath and whatever else made his heart falter again. Cardiac Arrest. _Here lays Stiles Stilinski. Died a brutal and unexpected death from the heat of his best friend._

 

Their lips met electrically, a firework setting off with a sudden spark. It was still at the wonderful beginning with parted lips, taking time to greet each other with formality. If time hadn't slowed, the two fools kissing in the kitchen of a dorm room did. Finally, the brims of their lips fully clasped together. Wetness and warmth flooding their mouths, Stiles shivered. Protectively and with instinct Scott gripped his best friend's waist and held him firmly, mistletoe dropping to the floor. Heavy breathing and subtle gasps somehow turned to hymns and carols for the dinner party as steady and watchful eyes surrounded them. On que, Lydia squealed. 

 

“Why is there Mistletoe on the kitchen floor?” 

 

Scott and Stiles separated abruptly, smiling, but carring looks of want and longing hung present; there was frustration from the interruption. When Stiles let his eyes open again he saw Scott fully transformed into a grotesque werewolf boy, grinning. He wasn't frightened one bit, instead, feelings of allure and amusement came to mind. A beat. 

 

“Oh, uh, buddy, you got a little bit of lycanthropy all over your face,” Stiles mumbled, his hands waving around Scott’s presence suggestively. He looked down to the plant on the floor and then to Scott, “Mistletoe?”

 

Scott shook off his transformation, letting go from Stiles, his nails clawing out from the tears in Stiles’ shirt that he made. “No, uh, _you._ ” They grinned at each other. Stiles chuckled and let his head fall heavily on Scott's shoulder. With it he became undeniably aware of the fact that Scott was _southbound_. 

 

“From me too?”


End file.
